


The Topless Towers of Ilium

by indigostohelit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bargaining, Deal with a Devil, M/M, Police, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold day in winter, an angel appears in Enjolras' apartment and offers him a wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Topless Towers of Ilium

**Author's Note:**

> Strong warning for police violence, and violence in general.
> 
> Thanks to Kelsey for hand-holding.

_Was this the face that lauched a thousand ships,_  
 _and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?_

- _Doctor Faustus,_ Christopher Marlowe

The angel is well-dressed. You hadn't expected that.

You hadn't expected an angel at all, to be fair. God and all his followers are—not the first thing on your mind, these days. But when you did think of angels, you thought not of gleaming white robes, or glowing halos, but. Well, a man on the streets, perhaps. Dressed in rags, or a garbage bag, or yesterday's sweatpants. Tangle-bearded and wild-eyed, shouting commandments at passing cars.

This is a man wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and his eyes are bright, and his hair is the color of fire, and there are two wings spreading out on each side of him, made of the dust in your sunlight, and if he isn't an angel, you don't know what is. He says, "Do you know how special you are?"

You say nothing.

He smiles at you. "We haven't seen your type in—well. A few centuries, at least. We look for you everywhere, you know, Shanghai, Mumbai, São Paulo, Seoul. Hardly ever find you in America. You're a rare breed."

You shove your hands into your pockets, say, "I'm honored by your presence. Can I bring you some water, food—”

"Don't bother," says the angel, "fuss and ceremony." He's sitting on your couch, looking uncomfortably immaculate against its threadbare plaid, and a crooked smile's curling the corner of his mouth. "How would you like to make a deal?"

You stop with what you're doing, which is picking at the cushion of your chair, and go absolutely still. "A deal?"

Now his smile's wrapped around his face. "We've done it before, you know. With others."

"Abraham," you fill in for him. "Ishmael, Samson, Elijah, Joan of Arc."

He nods. "Something like that."

You try to catch his gaze, but his eyes are bright, darting too-quick around your peeling-paint living room. "Who exactly—" you begin.

Now the angel looks straight at you. "Do you want a bargain or don't you?" he says, and there's a flash of irritation in his voice. "We're busy people—there’s people to do, things to see—"

"I'll take a bargain!" you say, "just-- what is it, exactly."

The angel smiles. It's sweeter than anything you've ever seen, and for a reason you can't explain, it chills you to the bone. "I can see you've got the fire in you," he says. "That's just what we need."

"What is the bargain?" you repeat.

He shrugs. "What you'd expect. We give you whatever you want-- power, wisdom, Helen of Troy, you name it."

“And what do you want in return?” you say.

He shrugs again. “Can’t it be enough,” he says, “that you’re doing our work?”

“Your work?” you ask.

“If we grant your desire,” he says, “no matter what it is, no matter how small or big, everything resulting from it will be our doing. It’ll have our—how do I put this—our energy behind it. It’ll be driven by our power. Everything that’ll happen will be something that we want to happen. You can ask for whatever you like, whenever you like. It’s enough that you ask it from us.”

"Whatever I like, whenever I like?" you repeat.

The angel nods. "There's a contract," he says. "You'll sign?"

You don't hesitate. "Give me the pen."

The contract's crisp, and the paper is warm and smells of old libraries and dust. Next to the dotted line is a complicated sign, faintly glowing; you assume it's his signature. Your own signature is with a flourish, and it settles into the page, the ink dry almost before you hand it back to the angel.

His smile is wide. He says, "And what do you want?"

.

Your name is Enjolras.

It might have been your father's. It might be that you've never had a father. Whatever the truth is, you aren't telling.

This cafe is different than most. There's a carpet, stained with coffee, and couches and chairs scattered around the room; the windows are draped with red cloth, and the air smells of dust and warm bread.

It feels more like home than anything ever has before.

Your friends have flung themselves haphazardly onto the chairs: Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel, Lesgles and Joly, Grantaire in a corner with his bottle, the legs of his chair tipped up. They're laughing; Lesgles has told a joke. You're not, but there's a bloom of something very warm in your chest, something halfway between amusement and joy, and you stand up, push the red-draped curtain back from a window.

They turn at the sudden spill of sunlight. Combeferre says, "Something wrong, Enjolras?", a smile still lingering in his voice.

No, you think, and say, "Yes. Let's do something about it."

.

Time passes differently than it used to. It's not something you could put a finger on; it's not something you could put into words, not if you were asked. But it's a month later, and you can remember each one of the days in between, but there's a little piece of your brain that's telling you they never happened.

It's moving around you, your city. The people are whispering; the newspapers are restless. Behind the television screens, wide-eyed newscasters flick their eyes from one camera to another, speak too quickly, tap their fingers in nervous drumbeats set to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

You walk the streets. Here, in the heart of your city, the walls are a living, breathing, roiling mass of graffiti, names and gang signs and art and screams. Old men and women huddle in their shopping bags, striving desperately for eye contact with those walking past.

Jehan's handing out flyers on a street corner. He almost hands one to you before he realizes, smiles, pulls you into a one-armed hug that you submit to with good grace. "In fairy tales," he says, "the king would always disguise himself as a beggar, right, go to walk among his people—"

You give him a look, and he shrugs. "Look, I know you're no king. I'm just saying."

"How is it going?" you say, and his face lights up.

"Good," he says. "Better than I'd expected. Better than _you’d_ expected, and you expect everything, you know that. The people, they're not walking past. They're, well, they're listening."

A woman passes, her coat pulled up tight against the cold, and Jehan starts forward. "Ma'am," he says, "a minute of your time, I love your boots, by the way," and you leave him. There's no sense distracting him when he has work to do.

It's not far from here to the cafe. (There's a part of your head that's telling you it used to be farther. You brush it aside.)

No one's in, not at this hour of the morning; they've all gone to their classes, like Joly and Combeferre, or are out on street corners like Jehan. You settle into one of the chairs and pull a copy of Paulo Freire out of your satchel, wrap your headphones around your ears. It's warm in here, and the music is soft and the book is engrossing, and you don't notice that anyone else is inside until his hand is on your shoulder.

You don't startle. Instead, you pull your headphones down around your neck, say, "I thought I assigned you to the corner of Truman and Katzenbach."

"No luck," he says, doesn't move his hand from your shoulder. "Stood there for an hour. The fish don't bite in this city."

"Jean Prouvaire's doing all right," you say, acerbic. "Maybe you ought to try for another hour."

"Maybe Jehan's a wizard," says Grantaire, and finally moves away from you, sprawls himself out along a couch. There's a beer in his hand; even you don't know how it got there. "What are you listening to?"

You'd just begun to pull your headphones back up; you push them down. "James Newton Howard," you say.

"Never heard of him," says Grantaire. "Pop?"

"Instrumental," you say, and then, "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm trying to read."

He snorts, soft. The stubble on his face looks at least a day old. "Glad you're not trying to be rude, Captain America. It's a comfort that nothing's intentional."

You ignore him, this time, pushing your headphones over your ears and letting the music wash over you. You can feel Grantaire's gaze on you for a long, long time; then he gets up, crumples his beer can, throws it in a perfect arc across the room into the trash can by the door. After a few moments, he follows it out.

You bury yourself in your book, let yourself forget the way his eyes lingered.

.

It's another month later, and you're in your apartment when the angel appears on your couch. His red hair is ruffled, today, and the feathers of his wings are in disarray; he looks as if he's been walking against a strong wind.

"So," he says. "You've been doing well for yourself."

"Are you here to ask for repayment?" you say, going to clear a space on your couch. It's covered with papers and books; you don't think you've spent more than a few hours at home this week.

"No," he says, sits down. He waves a hand for you to sit across from him, and you sink into a chair that you almost remember being there before. "Just come to see how your wish is turning out." He looks you up and down. "Well, I see."

"Thank you," you say, sincere. "We're making a difference here, one that you couldn't imagine—"

"I can imagine," he says, and smiles that crooked smile at you again.

"Well," you say, "of course you can imagine, you can—" You break off, swallow. "What's it like? Up there?"

For a long moment the look on the angel's face is utterly blank, and then it softens. He says, "Louder."

"Louder?" you say, puzzled.

"There's—" the angel says, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "In this world, there are voices that you don't hear. Can't hear. It's, well, it's farther away." A smile twitches at his lips, almost wistful. "And there's singing, up there. Every moment, singing."

His face is so strangely melancholy that you don't want to press. You say, instead, "Can I offer you a drink?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing for me. Just came to see all this." He reaches out to shake your hand, and you can't help but wince when he does; his skin is hot, hotter than any human's would be. "Good luck," he says, and then smiles, crooked again. "But you don't need luck, do you?"

He's gone before you can tell him no.

.

There's a protest on Market Street; you're in the cafe when you hear about it. Feuilly stumbles in through the door of the back room, his Sox cap all askew on his head. He says, "Union strike, blew up big as hell—everyone's there—someone called the cops, people think—"

You're up in an instant, your book discarded on a table, your friends following you out the door. The blocks seem to fly by; it's not long before the chanting slams into your ears as you turn a corner, a wall of pure furious _sound_ in the same rhythm as your heart, more enormous and powerful than you've ever heard the city before.

Nearby is a building with tall stone steps leading up to it. You jog up, peer over the crowd, hoping to get a better look. The police are here already, but there aren't many, and the people are everywhere. You see all races, all ages. Their faces are bright, wide-eyed, turned to the sky as if they're looking for someone.

You close your eyes, spread your arms, let the spirit move you.

You've never spoken like this before. Oh, you've thought these things, in that halfway place between sleeping and waking where your heart is closest to your mouth; in your dreams you've raised multitudes, but it's only been in your dreams. In the world that wakes, you've never seen people turn towards you; in the waking world, they've never been rapt at your words. In the waking world, you've never had anyone listen to you.

(Afterward, you can't quite remember what it is that you say.)

They come up to you, afterwards, tell you their names, shake your hand, touch your sleeve. Combeferre is at your side, talking to them; Courfeyrac coaxes them into smiles, hands out pamphlets. The air feels on fire. Your lungs feel on fire.

"Very pretty, Captain America," says Grantaire quietly, afterwards, when they've dispersed and you're all making your way back to the cafe.

"Don't call me that," you snap. It's not as if you're not used to this from him, but today you've done things that itch at your heart from the inside with how much you want to do them again, and you're tired of your revolution being a joke in another's mouth.

"What should I call you, then?" he says. "Apollo? Do you have the gift of prophecy yet?"

"Call me Enjolras," you say. "Or don't call me anything at all."

His shoulder brushes past yours as you walk, companionable. He stinks of day-old beer. You shy away.

.

The people come to you, after that.

They come to all of you. Fire-eyed people with notebooks under their arms tap Combeferre on the shoulder, demand a minute of his time; he draws them diagrams, makes them outlines, his hands in the air drawing a picture of the future in glowing lines of light. Men with thin faces and women with children at their side whisper to Courfeyrac, and he takes their hands, listens to their stories with a steady gaze.

But it's you they look at from the corner of their eyes, you who they shy back from when you give them a nod. It's you they ask, tremulous, for help with their protests, with sharing the word, with spreading the wildfire you can see in their eyes.

It's spring, now. There's grass winding its way in through the cracks of the pavement. There are still men and women wandering the streets, with cats and dogs; you still see the blankness and distrust on the face of the poor as they move through the streets. But the city is warmer now, and the sun bleeds through the smog.

You walk from one avenue to another, sometimes because you have errands and sometimes because your whole body itches to be out in the city. From cafes in one part of town to bars in another, from dance clubs to concert halls; the lights of the street lamps gleam off the telephone wires, and you breathe in the city air.

You talk to one part of the city; you talk to another. You find who has guns, who has training, who can build and who can fight and who can run. You speak to the uncertain, to the unconvinced, to the ones who believe you are lying. You touch their hands. You look into their eyes.

There's a piece missing, still. Everyone says so. It's not the revolutionaries you need, not the ones who come eagerly to your cause, or even the ones who vehemently call you empty-headed and wicked. It's the blank-faced people you pass every day as you move through the city, the ones who see you not as a prophet or a heretic but as someone who is too painfully, impossibly idealistic, someone who is too young to understand how ultimately futile all your efforts are.

Your enemy is not hatred, but indifference. But there's fire enough in you to counter that.

You gather guns, in the meanwhile, and speak to your friends, and draw maps of the city. You can't remember the last time you simply sat down with a good book in the cafe, and you don't miss it. These days the fire in you burns so hot you're afraid it will spill out of your mouth, turn every word on your tongue into a flaming sword.

Time passes. You don't know how much, or how quickly. These days things seem to skip from one day to the next, like moments in a dream, like scenes in a play. Your friends move past your eyes, entering and exiting like spirits.

The only place of stillness in this hurricane is Grantaire. No matter where you go, no matter what you're doing, you can always see him out of the corner of your eye, a beer clutched in his hand. He always has yesterday's stubble on his cheeks, and his face is always hangdog, his eyes drooping. You meet his gaze, again and again; he stares back at you without flinching.

You don't know why he stays. He has no faith in the revolution; he won't hand out pamphlets, won't do the speaking on street corners that the others compete with each other to be allowed to do. When you huddle with your friends over maps and plans, he never joins you. You'll make a speech, and he'll make a joke; you'll ask him for a favor, and he'll go and drink.

The way he looks at you, though, is like nothing you've ever seen before. Oh, people have stared at you before; the people stare at you all the time, these days. But there's something in his eyes, some awful aching _sadness_ , that grates at you worse than everything else.

Some time later, Courfeyrac brings a friend to the cafe, introduces him as a student. His name is Marius, and his father was a soldier. He speaks with fervor and joy of the 1950s, of the peace of suburbia, and you and Combeferre bat him idly between you until you can see his head is aching and send him home. But his intentions shine out of his face, good and sweet.

You flick Courfeyrac a look, tell him not to bring home any more strays. He blows you a kiss.

The city's pulsing. There's a heartbeat to it all, the headlights and telephone wires and the chanting of the people, and when you walk the streets you can feel your footsteps shift to its rhythm. It's all becoming louder and louder, shaking at the buildings, shaking at the air, and the whole world is humming like the sea before a storm.

Something's coming.

.

Something comes.

It's on a day in May, when the city has been sunny for ages. Spring's come.

This time it's Bahorel who throws open the door of the cafe, tells you to come to the corner of Tenth and Montavista as quick as you can. You're used to it, now, how the blocks fly by until you've arrived where you need to be. The people are chanting, the police look nervous, and it's all so familiar you could do it in your sleep.

Until someone fires a shot.

They've never shot before, the police. You don't know why, but you haven't wanted to question it. The protests have been peaceful, the officials almost friendly; you know you're lucky, more lucky than you ought to be, and you know why.

But the blast rings through the air, and someone on the edge of the crowd falls to the ground with a sickening thump.

There's a long moment of terrible silence. Then a man screams and some people are pushing to run, elbowing each other and stomping on each other's feet in their haste to flee. Others are charging at the police, and there's more shots fired, now. There aren't any more falling bodies, but the sound startles you out of your paralysis.

You shout for silence, and, miraculously, it comes.

The people calm. The police tuck their guns into their belts. They're looking to you, all of them, and you take a moment to close your eyes and offer the most heartfelt thanks you can muster.

You send the people home, tell them to wait for a signal. You look from policeman to policeman until they at last break eye contact, look down at their feet. Then, and only then, do you allow yourself to cross the square and look at the body on the ground.

It's Jehan.

.

"Where are you?" you say. Your eyes are closed, and your nails are digging into your skin.

The air in your apartment shifts. The angel says, "What did you think it was going to be? Sunshine and roses?"

The dark humor in his voice hits too close to home. Your eyes fly open. You say, "One of my friends is dead."

"It's a revolution," says the angel. Today his wings seem made out of the shadows shifting on your couch, too transparent. "You asked for it."

"I didn't ask for this," you say, and rub at your eyes. "I didn't-- he was a poet. I don't know if you knew he was a poet. He was a poet, and he believed there were aliens out there, and when he looked at the stars it made you feel like a prophet to see his face."

"You don't need him to feel like a prophet," says the angel.

"I don't want to feel like one without him," you say, and look away.

There's a pause; the angel sighs, shifts closer. You can feel his eyes raking over your face. "You can't void the contract," he says. "As long as you're alive, we'll be fulfilling your wish."

"I don't want to," you say, close your eyes. "I don't want to undo all the work we've done. But I didn't—didn't want Jehan to die. Never that."

"I can't make any promises," says the angel, not quite gentle.

"Just—go," you say.

There's a rush of air. When you open your eyes, your apartment is empty.

.

Lesgles has hung the windows of the cafe with black. He tells you Courfeyrac hasn't left the back room in days, lying motionless on one of the couches and staring into space. Combeferre's been bringing him food, sitting at his side, staying with him, but there's only so much you can do.

You cross to the couch. Courfeyrac's facing away from all of you, his back turned. His knees have been pulled into his chest. You say, "How long have you been here?"

"How long do you think?" says Courfeyrac. His voice is rough.

"You could die, too," you say. "Or I could, or Combeferre, or Marius. That's a part of all this we can't avoid."

"I know that," says Courfeyrac. "I know."

"You don't have to stay," you say. "None of you do."

"But you're staying," says Courfeyrac, into the couch. "You aren't abandoning anything."

"No," you say.

"Then neither am I," he says.

You look around the room, and meet a sea of faces staring back at you. Bahorel's jaw is set, his face hard. Joly's eyes are red, but he meets your gaze with what's almost defiance.

"They'll pay," you say.

"They'll pay," repeats Feuilly. From him, it sounds like a promise.

"Not just for Jehan," says Combeferre, gentle. "For everything."

"But for Jehan," says Grantaire unexpectedly. "For Jehan, too."

.

The days pass, one at a time.

On Market, on Truman, on Montavista, the people are hungry; you can see it in their eyes. Before Jehan died, they grasped at your clothes, smiled into your faces, asked if the revolution was really coming. Now they show you their guns, ask why it hasn't come yet. Let us go, say their faces. Let us take what we're owed. We're ready.

Even on the streets, where the plastic bags shriek in the wind and the graffiti curls around itself like snakes on a gorgon's head, the people with cardboard signs and plastic cups stare at you with furious dark eyes, hungry in more ways than one. 

A blazing, brilliant summer is creeping into the city through the cracks in the sidewalk. Give us a signal, it says. Give us a sign. Let us go.

But there’s more to the days after Jehan’s death than the restlessness that pervades the city. The police are out where they weren’t before; they eye you with the kind of suspicion you haven’t seen since you were a child. You’re stopped three times a day, frisked up and down, their hands pressing at your jacket and on the insides of your thighs. They glare at you, let their hands drift to their guns; you give thanks for small mercies that they haven’t arrested you already. This, too, you know, is a miracle.

It’s not just you, of course. Joly comes into the cafe frantically brushing at his coat, saying a policeman threw a beer at him, and you can all see the long, dark, sticky stain on his shirt. A little boy called Gavroche who Courfeyrac’s befriended complains of near-constant kicks. Feuilly walks with his head ducked and his hood pulled over his face as far as possible; you don’t blame him. You know even before all this started, the police saw him as nothing but a walking threat.

It’s Bahorel, though, whose eyes become harder and harder each day; it’s Bahorel who never appears with a bruise, but whose lips are tight and whose knuckles are white and red. The police won’t hit him, he says, they know better than to try to land a punch. But they call him—

He breaks off there, tells you there are things he won’t repeat. But one day Lesgles takes you by the arm and sits you down.

He tells you in a whisper, “They said—I’m repeating verbatim, here— _I don’t really think of it as human._ To his face. That was the kindest one.” His face is red. “He never talks back to them. I don’t know what would happen if he did.”

But there’s nothing to be done; what can you do? You let Courfeyrac run a comforting hand up and down his back, let Feuilly tell him in a low voice how to hold his head high and walk as if he can’t hear anything, let the policemen’s hands skim over your thighs as they frisk you. You’re only waiting. There’s a day coming when all of this will end. There must be.

You’re in the cafe alone one day, making notes of resources and supplies, when you hear a cough behind you. You spin. It’s Grantaire, of course.

“Good to see you hard at work, Captain America,” he says.

“I wish I could say the same of you,” you say.

He gives you a smile, too familiar in its crookedness for your comfort. “Come on, Cap, you know the people don’t listen to me. Whatever witchcraft you worked on the rest of them doesn’t take. Too much booze in my blood for any magic to fit.”

“I wish you’d stop making these jokes,” you say, clipped and tight. You stand up, begin to gather your books and papers. “If you don’t intend to make yourself useful, I don’t know why you stay.”

There’s a long pause. Grantaire says, “I can go, if you want me to.”

“Don’t make me seem like I’m saying—” you say, slam your hand down on the table. “I don’t want anyone here who doesn’t want to be. Not after what happened to Jehan. You could _die_ , Grantaire, and if you don’t even believe in what you’re dying for—”

“I want to be here,” he says, takes a long swig from his beer.

“Then I have to be missing something,” you say, “because you don’t _care_ about any of this, not the people, not the revolution, not the city. I don’t think you’re capable of caring about anything except your Budweiser—”

“Miller Lite,” he says, “excuse you.”

“And your jokes,” you finish. “You can’t die for jokes, Grantaire.”

“Can’t I?” he says. He won’t meet your eyes.

“If that’s what you are dying for,” you say, “then, yes, I want you to leave.” You can feel him go still. “And if you’re dying for something else,” you press on, regardless, “I want you to tell me _what._ We’re about to make something happen in this city. I need to know if you want to be a part of it.”

“I believe in you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He meets your eyes, finally; his gaze is too sharp, as usual, and his eyes are just a fraction too blue. “So I don’t care about anything, maybe,” he says. “I care about you. Yeah, Apollo, I know that’s not good enough. I was never going to be a good disciple, but this is the best I can do.”

You stare. He adds, quiet, “I’m not leaving.”

“Are you in love with me?” you say.

He says, “Yes,” baldly, doesn’t break his stare.

“Grantaire—” you say, after an achingly long pause. It’s all you can do to try to be kind. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“I know you’re taken, Captain America,” he says, and snorts out a laugh. “Believe me, you’ve made that clear.” His eyes grow serious. “Don’t send me away.”

You look at him, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his old sweatshirt stinking of beer, his face rough with stubble. His eyes look older than anything you’ve ever seen.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you to go,” you say.

His eyes slide shut, and a smile curls the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says. “Because, let me tell you, if you’d let that half-assed soldier boy Pontmercy fight with you and not me—”

“Grantaire,” you say, “if we’re done, I was trying to work. Please, if you’re going to talk—”

“Go on,” he says. “Work.” But he’s still smiling.

.

And then, the next day, you find Bahorel’s body.

You almost don’t recognize it; it barely looks human, after what’s been done to it. It’s only Feuilly who identifies him by his clothes, after you’ve brought the body into the cafe, and even then, they’re streaked with blood.

“What the hell happened?” says Marius, sounding sick. Behind him, Joly rushes into the bathroom.

It’s Lesgles who answers, his hands curled into fists, as white-knuckled as Bahorel’s always were. “He talked back.”

They look at you.

You can’t quite see. It’s not that you’re crying; your eyes are perfectly dry. It’s anger blotting out your vision, eating at the corners of it, and your ears are ringing. From a distance, you hear yourself say, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” says Combeferre.

“Tomorrow,” you say. “Tell everyone you can to bring the guns. We’ll need as much furniture as we can gather.”

You walk home.

“Don’t tell me that wasn’t fair,” says the angel, when you arrive there.

“That was not fair,” you say. “That was not right. That was not justice.”

“That’s the way things work in a revolution,” says the angel. “Don’t blame us.”

You look at him. “I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming the people who tortured him and murdered him and then left his body for his friends to find, because they could, and because they didn’t think of him as human. That’s who I’m going to blame. That’s who we’re going after. That’s who’s going to pay.”

“Good,” says the angel, and adds hastily, “Not good that it happened, of course. You understand what I mean.”

“Please leave,” you say, and begin hunting through your closet, looking for the boxes of bullets you’ve gathered. When you look back, he’s gone.

.

The people pour into Truman Street in waves.

If you’d worried about their indifference before, you have no fear of it now. The streets are full as far as you can see. There's a hot summer wind whipping through the city, stinging at your cheeks and eyes. Under your jacket, you can feel the heavy press of your gun.

The police aren't here yet; it's a small miracle, but it's all you need.

The sunlight hovers. You close your eyes, let yourself take a last deep breath of the city air, and nod to Combeferre.

He gives you a rare smile. Then he shouts over the noise of the crowd, "Over here! We need to block off this street! As much furniture as you have!"

And the people are moving, the people are shouting and chanting and screaming, and the barricades are rising on every side. Feuilly's on one of them, shouting about France, of all things. You can hear Courfeyrac's voice from a block over, raised in song.

And for a moment it's the old magic back, the days before your friends began to die; for a long moment, the sun's gleaming down on the city, _your_ city, and the people are brushing past you, smiling into your face as if you're the sun. The sky's bluer than you've ever seen it in your life, summer, summer at last, and the air is sweet, and you can feel the fire in your heart rise up. Your eyes are stinging; you wipe them with one hand. The people are singing.

Then the police arrive.

There's gunfire, immediately. They aren't bothering to wait so they can say you shot first; or perhaps they'll say you shot first, anyway, later. Some people are running, screaming, and some are holding their ground, raising their guns. You make your way over to a barricade, aim, steady your hand, fire a warning shot at a policeman's feet.

He jumps back, startled, and for a moment you meet his eyes. They're so familiar that you jerk back, have to scramble under the cover of the barricade to avoid being shot. Your heart's hammering like a rabbit's.

It takes you a second, and then you've placed him: games of touch football on the blacktop, a tree with low-hanging branches you and a few others would climb. You went to school with him, when you were children. You can't recall his name, only how his mother would send little notes along with his lunchbox, before any of you could read.

"They could be our brothers," you say to Combeferre, who's standing beside you, surveying the state of things.

"All men are our brothers," says Combeferre absently, scanning the crowd.

"Yes," you say, "they are," and turn, aim.

.

The fighting dies down late in the afternoon. You move from barricade to barricade throughout the streets of the city, speaking to the people, checking in with your friends. 

Courfeyrac's caught a stray fist from a policeman who came too close, is now sporting a black eye; when you ask him what happened to the policeman, he smiles at you, introduces you to a man with a bright red face who shakes your hand, apologizes. Marius is with Joly, who's claiming tetanus from a scrape on his knee. Combeferre's out tending to the wounded, as best he can.

The sun's going down by the time you make your way back to the barricade you started at. The streets are still full of people. You're surrounded by laughter, talking, still some singing; they quiet as you pass, give you a nod.

When you reach your barricade, Grantaire's waiting for you.

"It's good to see you here," you say, and mean it.

"Beer?" he says. "I have an extra."

You shake your head. "You know I don't drink, Grantaire."

"No," he says, "you don't. You don't drink and you barely swear and I don't think I've ever seen you so much as look at a girl. It makes you think."

"Not all the men in this revolution are interested in girls," you snap. "If you haven't been listening to anything else I've said—"

"For Christ's sake," he says. "I'm just saying. I wonder about you."

"You're drunk," you say shortly.

"When am I not?" he says, takes a long drink of his beer. "You're perfect. Captain America. Have you always been that way?"

You look at him.

"Things went so well," he says, "at the beginning. The police should have shut us down from day one. The police should have arrested _you_ a long, long time ago."

"We've been very lucky," you say.

"No one's that lucky," says Grantaire, simply, meets your eyes.

"If you're trying to insinuate," you say, abruptly white-hot with fury, "that I've made some, some kind of deal with the police, that Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire--"

"No," he says. "Christ, no. I know I'm not stupid but give me some credit, Cap, I'm not that stupid, you'd die before you'd do that. Besides, that doesn't explain. Well. _You._ ”

He tucks his hands into his pockets. "You're a prophet. Apollo. The police don't want to shoot you, you're too pretty. The speeches you make, the words you say, they can make people do things they'd never do otherwise. And it's funny, but I can't remember a word you've said in them." 

You start; he waves a hand. "Oh, I remember the _things_ you said. Freedom and equality and brotherhood and peace for all mankind, hope for a better day, the next century will be full of happiness and light, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But I can't remember a _word_ you've said, Cap. Not a single sentence."

"I have work to do," you say, measuring out each word. "Lesgles and Feuilly are still missing."

"I'll help you look for them," he says. You can't find a way to say no.

.

Lesgles is lying an alleyway. 

Feuilly is crouched next to him, pressing on his chest, blood all down the side of his face.

"The bullet went right through his ribs," he says to you, his voice hoarse. "There's a hole in his lung."

"What about you?" you say, gesture to his forehead.

"Another bullet," he says, "think it might've clipped my skull. Haven't been able to go get a doctor for myself because, well. Don't ask me to move my hands."

You crouch down beside Lesgles. His eyes are wide with pain, and there's blood on his lips. When he sees you, you can see him open his mouth; you put your hand over his mouth. "For God's sake," you whisper.

Lesgles' whole body twitches at once, and Feuilly shouts, strains to hold him down with his free hand. "He was doing all right a second ago," he says, "well, not _all right,_ but--"

"I'll go find Combeferre," you say, and run. Grantaire's at your side.

When you return, Combeferre carrying his medical kit, Feuilly's curled up against the wall of the alley. Both his hands are wrapped around his knees. Across from him, Lesgles' body lies very still.

"Feuilly—" you say.

He looks up slowly. "My head hurts," he says.

Combeferre kneels by his side, pushes back his hair. Even you can see that the place where the bullet grazed him is bright red and inflamed, angry red streaks crawling down his cheek. Combeferre looks back at you, shakes his head.

"I don't see how," he says. "He's been tending to Lesgles, yes, but it doesn't look like he's been even touching his own wound. He should be clean. And it's not only that-- infections don't spread this fast. Infections don't _look_ like this, not this kind of wound. This isn't normal."

There's a scream from somewhere out in the streets. You spin around. The too-familiar sound of gunfire is coming from the barricades.

"Go," says Combeferre, gestures frantically. "I'll get him to a safe place. They'll need help on the barricades."

Courfeyrac and Joly are there to greet you when you arrive; Courfeyrac's face is worried. "Where are Feuilly and Lesgles?" he says. "I haven't seen them since—"

You shake your head mutely. Courfeyrac's face goes white. You can see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He says, "We'll make them pay," and then he clutches at his stomach. There's red around his fingers.

You stumble back, turn around. There's a policeman who's made it over the barricade; you recognize him as your friend from childhood. Next to you, Courfeyrac is gasping. You shoot the policeman in the chest.

But there are more coming over, climbing over the barricade, and you grab Courfeyrac and Joly's hands, tug them away. Courfeyrac is stumbling. You make it to the shelter of a nearby building, kneel by Courfeyrac. Joly's fumbling in his own medical kit. "It's okay," he says, "it's okay, it's going to be okay, it's got to be okay--"

There's a sneaking suspicion crawling over you. The world has gone flat, and your blood's roaring in your ears. You say, "Joly, can you take care of Courfeyrac?"

"You're not going to stay with him?" says Joly.

"I think," you say, "I think I would only make things worse."

You stand up. He says, "Where are you going?"

You say, "To hear some answers."

.

Your apartment's not within the bounds of the barricades, but the cafe is. You push open the door. It looks so peaceful, here; the carpet is stained with coffee, and there's a book that Combeferre's left on the table.

"Are you even an angel?" you say.

His hair is a riot of red, today, and his suit is neater and more pressed than ever. His wings are made out of shifting shadows. He says, "To be fair, I never told you I was. Is it my fault you assumed?"

"Yes," you say. "It is."

He shrugs, spreads his arms wide. "I never lied to you. Not once. The contract was fair."

"Sit down," you say.

He sits down on a couch. You sink into a chair across from him. "I thought demons asked for souls."

"No," he says. "Not any more. Why would we do all that work so we could torture just one soul? You do such a good job of doing it to each other, after all."

"You knew this would all go wrong," you say.

"Not quite," says the demon, folds his long fingers on his lap. "We made sure it would all go right, at first. All those little miracles. Then, well, we made sure it wouldn't."

"You killed Jehan," you say. "And Bahorel. Lesgles, Courfeyrac, the policeman I shot--"

"Feuilly too, soon," he says. "And Joly, and the little boy Gavroche, and Combeferre. All of them. Well, not Marius-- he's some kind of cockroach, survives anything-- but all the people you sent here, all the people you led with your lovely words-- oh, the next century will be _beautiful_ , you said." A crooked smile curls the corner of his lips. "They'll hate you for that worse than anything else."

"The future," you say. "The city—"

"You'll be thrown in jail," he says, "of course. There'll be riots at your execution. Have you ever been in a riot? They're not fun. Well, not for the people in them. And they'll grow bigger, and bigger, and there'll be policeman on every street corner for the next two hundred years, and the newspapers will be silenced, the people will be afraid, they will starve and beg and steal and go to the jails and come out broken for the next two hundred years, and you know what the best part is?"

You sit silent. He says, "The best part is, it's all you. All of it. We wouldn't be able to lift a finger if you hadn't said yes."

"You deliberately corrupted my wish," you say.

"We fulfilled your wish to the letter," the demon says. "It's not our fault if you wished for the wrong thing." He laughs. "You wanted to be the glorious leader of the revolution. Here you are. We gave you your angel face, we gave you your charisma, we gave you your fiery speeches, we gave you a cafe, we gave you followers, we gave you a revolution to lead."

He shakes his head. "You humans, you're always so selfish. You could have asked for an end to world hunger, or poverty, or war. Isn't that what you're fighting for, out there? But you asked for a revolution. So we gave one to you. And as long as you're in it, it's doomed."

You go still. "What did you say?"

"I said," he says, "you're selfish. You've never done anything for others in your life; even when you're pretending it's about the people, it's all about your leadership, your glory, your—"

"No," you say. "After that. As long as the revolution has me in it, it's doomed."

He stares at you.

"And earlier," you say, "after Jehan died. _You can't void the contract. As long as you're alive, we'll be fulfilling your wish._ ”

There's a long, frozen moment. The demon disappears.

You close your eyes.

.

Grantaire catches you at the edge of the barricade.

“Where are you going?” he says. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets. For once, there’s no beer in his hand.

“You were right,” you say. “About how lucky we were. About how unnatural it’s been.”

He says, “Combeferre’s been treating Feuilly’s infection. It’s been—not effective.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s not your fault, Enjolras,” says Grantaire.

Your name sounds almost foreign in his mouth. You turn to him, desperate, say, “Grantaire—”

He steps closer to you, puts a hand on your shoulder, kisses you hard.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been kissed; you suppose it will be the last. You let his hands curl into your chest. His skin is warm, and in your arms, he feels nothing less than utterly human.

You pull away, say, “I have to go.”

He says, “I’ll come with you.”

“Grantaire,” you say. “I’ve made deals with things I shouldn’t have made deals with. It’s possible I’ve done things that even He won’t forgive. I don’t know where I’m going, once I’m—gone.”

“Then I’ll make sure you don’t go alone,” he says.

You stare into his eyes for a long moment. Then you say, “Thank you.”

The police are waiting, on the other side of the barricade. Their eyes flicker when they see you; one lowers his gun. But the others stand strong, and in their eyes you see the faces of Jehan, Bahorel, Gavroche, Lesgles, Courfeyrac, the man you killed, the people behind the barricades, the people in front of it; you see the city, the winding graffiti and the sun on the telephone wires, the hot summer wind, the swift sunrise, the days that pass like dreams, the future waiting.

You take Grantaire’s hand. The world goes white.

.

The demon told the truth. There is singing.


End file.
